


Affection

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Intercrural Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Phone Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, Sherlock has no one but his brother to turn to for comfort. Mycroft obliges him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This isn’t something they used to do. All of this is fairly new. After Sherlock’s capture and going into hiding, his only contact has been Mycroft. And Sherlock gets so bored when cooped up with no one to converse with. He feels like everything from the past six months has been leading up to this moment.

**Busy tonight? -SH**

**Yes, actually. Important meeting to attend. -MH**

**I’m bored. -SH**

Sherlock can picture him looking at his phone in contemplation, knowing he should answer in the negative but wanting to say yes so badly.

It’s a moment more, and Sherlock thinks his brother really will turn him down, when suddenly his phone lets out Irene Adler’s moan.

**Make a reservation. Somewhere discreet. We don’t want a repeat of last time. Too close of a call. -MH**

Sherlock smirks. But it had been so much fun to be nearly caught. That would’ve been quite the scandal. With a few keystrokes, Sherlock booked them a room and made his way over to the hotel to wait for his brother’s arrival. He wears the purple dress shirt that Mycroft likes.

Sherlock gets more bored while he waits, and he’s glad that he brought his computer along. No reason some cases can’t be solved at the same time. He’s been trying to work out the gory details of a young girl’s demise, but to no avail. Their only clue was a yellow umbrella…

He hears the door click open and shut behind him, but he makes no move to get up. There’s the sound of shoes being toed off and the soft sound of feet moving across the thin carpet. A set of hands rest on his shoulders. 

“You’re late.”

“I never even gave you a time that I’d be finished,” Mycroft scoffs.

Sherlock turns in his chair.

“Your meetings never last longer than two hours. You texted me at six o’clock to choose a hotel. That would bring us to eight. Allowing half an hour of travel, you should have been here at no later than eight thirty. It’s nine fifteen. You’re late.”

Mycroft sighs in defeat.

“Perhaps I bought some dinner on the way over.”

Sherlock tisks and looks at his brother’s thickening waistline.

“Perhaps you did.”

“Oh piss off. I don’t even know why I’m here anymore.”

Sherlock stands up.

“You're here because I want you to be. And you want to be here as well. I can hear it in your breathing.”

Mycroft sighs.

“Is that so?” Mycroft challenges.

His words are cut off with a sudden fierce kiss. It catches him off-guard.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mycroft shouts, roughly pushing him away. “What in the bloody hell was that?”

Sherlock smirks.

“You’re supposed to be a genius too, aren’t you? You tell me.”

Mycroft ignores the question and wipes his mouth with his pocket square.

“Yes, well, I think I’ve experienced enough for one day. I’ll phone you in a week with new instructions.”

Sherlock grabs his arm when he turns to leave.

“Don’t.”

Mycroft sighs.

“Sherlock, I understand that you’ve been lonely and hurting, but it simply isn’t _done_.”

For once, Sherlock is at a loss for words. His brother has never expressed such sentiment before. It’s a rare thing that takes him by surprise. He bites his lip as he contemplates what to say next.

“I need you.”

The admission hangs in the air like balloon waiting to be popped.

“What would have me do, brother mine?”

“Kiss me.”

“Sherlock,” he admonishes softly.

“Please.”

Mycroft sighs deeply as he weighs the consequences. He steps closer to him and gently grasps his brother’s face in his hands. Carefully he pulls Sherlock’s face towards his and presses his lips to Sherlock’s trembling ones. He pulls back slowly so as not to startle his brother.

“More.”

He huffs, leans in again, and gently opens Sherlock’s mouth, prompting Sherlock with his own. It goes on for longer than it should.

When Mycroft pulls back this time, he takes a step back as well. Sherlock looks at the floor in shame.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock looks up at that.

“Implying that there will be more at a later date.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“That’s not a ‘no.’”

“ _No_.” A beat. “Now really, I must be going.”

“Good-bye, brother dear,” he scoffs.

“Good-bye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock kicks a chair over when Mycroft quietly shuts the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s weeks later, and Sherlock is pacing a cramped room, bouncing a small ball from his hand to the floor as he walks. He mutters to himself when the ball bounces away from him. He pulls out his phone instead. 

**Where are you? -SH**

**Working. -MH**

**I need you. -SH**

Sherlock gave up subtlety ages ago, and Mycroft sees straight through him.

**I’ll come when I can. -MH**

It’s dismissive, but at least it’s an affirmative answer. Sherlock resumes pacing and scratches at his shaggy hair. He needs a cut again. He wishes he had a pack of cigarettes too. His hands itch for something to do, but the blank room offers him few options. He misses his violin. He picks up the ball again and counts back from 1000.

He decides to play a game inside his head. Each number will represent something he misses dearly.

The first few hundred pertain to cases, then friends, then art, then food, then family. Mycroft gets sixty all to himself.

The way Mycroft dances, sings, eats, acts, thinks, kisses…

He reaches 285 when Mycroft enters the room, and Sherlock is on him like glue. 

“Kindly remove yourself, brother.”

If possible, Mycroft stiffens more as he waits for Sherlock to let go. He doesn’t.

“Sherlock.”

Instead of moving, Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft’s neck, breathing him in, enjoying the feel of another human being. A real living person who knows him. Someone who can walk and talk and kiss. 

He can’t resist it. His warm lips press up against Mycroft’s throat. He feels his brother swallow nervously.

“Isn’t that enough now?”

It’s not really a question, and Sherlock pulls back to ask one of his own.

“Can’t you see that I wasting away here? I need this, Mycroft. I need _you_.”

“Were it safer, I’d have you placed somewhere more stimulating. This is the best I can do. I’m in the process of searching for more accommodating living spaces. That said, your recent obsession is starting to alarm me.”

Angered, Sherlock shouts, “Can you bloody well blame me?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen for a second, but he settles his demeanor quickly.

“I understand that you’re bored. I’ll bring you books and papers when possible; however, your preoccupation with me must cease.”

“Very well then. Kiss me right now and tell me that it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

Mycroft sighs with impatience.

“You’re so confident that you’re right, Sherlock. You’ve always been like that. Ever since you were a boy, you needed proof for yourself.”

“Oh, do shut up and kiss me.”

So Mycroft does. He yanks Sherlock’s face down to his level and crushes their mouths together. There’s nothing gentle about it this time. Mycroft worries Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth until Sherlock whimpers. Sherlock places his hands at Mycroft’s neck to hold him still while he kisses him deeply. Tiny moans escape his lips as his brother complies with his wishes.

Eventually, Mycroft pushes on Sherlock’s shoulders, and they pull away panting.

“Well?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft pauses before answering.

“Nothing.”

“Then we’re not trying very hard, are we?”

The kisses begins again, tongues and teeth joining in. Hands tilt heads and shove shoulders until Sherlock’s maneuvered Mycroft against a wall. Mycroft pushes Sherlock’s hand off his hip while Sherlock presses a thigh between his legs. Sherlock licks into Mycroft’s mouth.

“And now?”

It brings Mycroft back to himself, and his cheeks flame red.

“This can never happen again, Sherlock. Do you understand me?” he pants. “This is so very wrong.”

Sherlock frowns.

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do. I have to leave now.”

“No, you don’t. You’re not scheduled to be anywhere else for another two hours. You just want to get away from me.”

“I won’t even try to figure out how you know that, but I really must leave.”

“Don’t make me beg.”

Mycroft straightens his clothes and grabs his umbrella. Composure completed, he walks to the door and coldly states, “I won’t.”

And shuts the door behind him.

This time, Sherlock cries.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock calls him the third time.

“I’m on my lunch break,” Mycroft states, putting his utensils down to answer his brother’s call.

“Go somewhere private. I need to speak to you.”

Mycroft has a feeling that he knows where this is going.

“Do you think this is wise?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good.”

Mycroft smirks. Sometimes Sherlock’s attitude can be dryly humorous.

There’s a pause, and Mycroft can hear slick noises in the background. He rolls his eyes.

“You’ve already started. What do you need me for?”

“Your voice has a soothing cadence. It will keep me focused when I’m at my most vulnerable.”

Mycroft is unsure how to respond to that sentiment. He’s been told he had a nice voice before. He knows he gives good lectures and dissertations to parliament, but he’s never used his voice for such illicit purposes.

“You’re not saying anything,” Sherlock complains.

“What would you have me say?”

“Tell me what you’d make me do if you were here.”

“Those are perhaps the most vulgar words I’ve ever heard come from your mouth. Since when do you talk like that?”

“Make me stop it.”

“Clever trick.”

“Knew you’d appreciate the effort.”

He finishes his sentence with a gasp of pleasure. It’s been eight months since his rescue, and he’s finally resorted to self-pleasure. He feels a trifle pathetic, but the idea of self-pleasuring to Mycroft’s voice and commands makes things interesting again. It will at least give him something to do for the next several minutes.

“You sound busy. I’ll let you go.”

“Must you always be so dull?”

“Must you always be so incestuous?”

Sherlock genuinely laughs at that. He supposes that it’s true. They’ve taken the idea of brotherly love a bit too far. But what’s another step after all they’ve been through?

“You’re a very good kisser.”

Sherlock squeezes his cock as he thinks about the kisses they’ve shared. Blissful.

“And what do you know of kissing?”

“I’ve kissed The Woman. And Moriarty. Though I didn’t really have much of a choice. I prefer your lips.”

A warmth stirs in Mycroft’s belly. It’s not every day that someone receives a compliment from Sherlock. It must mean that he’s being genuine.

“I’m sure there are other things you can do with yours.”

Sherlock moans loudly, and Mycroft smirks again. A victory.

“What would you make me do?” he asks again.

“Sherlock, I’m in public.”

“Tell me.”

“You brat. You’d be down on your knees before I could get a word in edgewise. I wouldn’t have to ‘make’ you do anything. You’re such an eager thing when you’re in one of your moods.”

“And then? Once I was on my knees, what then?”

“You’d pull down my trousers and my pants and start sucking me before I was even hard. You wouldn’t wait. You’re impatient. You’d be suckling me like your life depended on it. Good things come to those who wait, you know.”

“Mycroft, I’m close now.”

“Shut up. You wanted me to talk, so I’m doing as you asked. Don’t interrupt me.”

Sherlock grunts loudly. Mycroft is glad many patrons have left to go back to work. He has the luxury of taking his time.

“You’d get me hard enough to penetrate you, but you would ejaculate before I even had the opportunity. You’ve been gagging for it for months, but you wouldn’t be able to hold off with me in your mouth. Your ejaculation would be off-putting, so I would set my clothes to rights and leave you to your own devices.”

There’s another loud moan over the phone, and Mycroft knows that his job is done.

Several seconds tick by before Sherlock speaks again, “Would you really?” 

“Would I really what?”

“Leave like that?”

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs.

Sherlock breathes a quiet sound of relief.

“I’d ejaculate into your mouth first.”

There’s a startled noise on the other end of the line before he hangs up. He’ll let his brother ponder over that one for a bit. Mycroft chuckles as he pockets his phone, takes another bite of his waiting cheese danish, and smiles to himself as he licks the cream from his fingers.

**Not funny. -SH**

No, perhaps not, but it was always fun to torment his younger brother. It would give him something to think about as he whiled away the hours. Deep down, he did feel bad for him, in a way. No contact with friends or extended family. Mummy and Father knew of course, but cousins, aunts, uncles, and _John_ all sobbed at his "funeral." What a secret to have to carry with oneself. He wishes there was something he could do with the words locked behind his mouth.

Sherlock would probably just kiss them away...


	4. Chapter 4

Things progress rapidly. Sherlock’s been notified by a Moriarty informant that he’s to infiltrate a Russian organization within the month. He pulls out his phone as soon as he gets the news.

**They want to send me out. Now. -SH**

**Are you up for the task? -MH**

**Don’t be dense. This is only a courtesy. -SH**

**Then I suppose it’s appropriate to say “good luck.” -MH**

**Come say good-bye to me properly when you’re done with work. -SH**

Mycroft pockets his phone upon deciding that there’s no good way to answer the text. Of course he wants to send his brother off properly, but he’s quite sure that the way Sherlock wants to be sent off is distasteful. Mycroft taps the table in front of him with his fingertips as he gets lost in thought. The things his brother has done this past year have been audacious to say the least, and that’s not even taking into account what he’s asked Mycroft to do. Mycroft lets his mind wander back over recent events.

_“Come on. Let’s do it. I know you want to fuck me,” Sherlock curses._

_“You’ve been drinking.”_

_“As if that matters. Come to bed with me, Mycroft. Tell me you don’t want to.”_

_Mycroft rolls his eyes. He had just meant to check up on his brother to ensure his safety was intact before sending him out on a dangerous mission again. Moriarty’s ring was vast, and Sherlock had only succeeded in taking down a part of it. And he was certainly in no state to take anyone down at the moment, unless of course, he tripped over his feet. He’d never seen his brother this inebriated before._

_“I don’t want to.”_

_Sherlock frowns in disappointment._

_“Must you be so boring?”_

_“One of us has to. It appears as if that role will go to me tonight. Now let’s get you to bed.”_

_“That’s more like it, don’t you think? Maybe you won’t fuck me. Maybe you’ll let me suck you off? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, brother mine?”_

It had been that phrase, of all things, that had tempted him. The dirty use of their term of endearment. He’s sure Sherlock will want a repeat performance tonight.

_“You’re heavy when you refuse to walk,” Mycroft complains._

_Sherlock leans heavily upon his brother. His senses are dulled and his mind wanders to subjects it should not. As they stumble up the stairs to Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock contemplates what to do with his brother once they’ve arrived at their destination. He really wants Mycroft in his mouth…_

_Mycroft gently pushes Sherlock onto his bed where he bounces with a small groan._

_“Don’t go yet.”_

_He manages to push himself into a sitting position._

_“Yes, Sherlock?”_

_“I want to give you something.”_

That “something” was along the lines of being shoved against the wall with surprising speed and agility, shirt tugged out of trousers, trousers shoved down along with pants, and a hot, wet mouth around his cock. Mycroft shivers at the memory.

_“You’ll love this. I know you will. Let me do this,” Sherlock murmurs at Mycroft’s bared thigh._

_There’s little to no preamble after that. Sherlock’s mouth descends and brings his cock to hardness with half-hearted protests spilling from Mycroft’s mouth. Sherlock loves the shoulder squeezes he receives in the process. Mycroft keeps up a litany the entire time._

_“This is wrong. And so very, very stupid. You know that, don’t you? What would mother think? We both know this is wrong. And you--you think you can get--get away with doing whatever you please. Well, you’re wrong. This isn’t--bloody hell!--healthy. Not for either of us. I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock Holmes. You know full well what you’re doing. I’m half-convinced that you’re not--not even drunk.”_

_Sherlock pulls off long enough to state in a completely even voice, “You’re not any fun at all, Mycroft,” before returning to his work._

_“Of all the inane, asinine, stubborn people to be related to, I’m stuck with you. Perfect. How fitting that you’re my cross to bear. You’re a brat.”_

Mycroft is sure now that his words served only to spur on his brother and his ministrations. He wonders what role will be expected of him tonight. How much more will he have to go along with? Things were rapidly getting out of hand. Mycroft could no longer pretend that what was happening between the two of them was against his wishes. He didn’t want it as badly as Sherlock did, but he also felt as if he couldn’t refuse Sherlock a this point. His brother would go mad with wanting and worry.

_“You know I’m doing this for you,” Mycroft recites as Sherlock sits back on his heels and wipes the come from his lips._

_“Yes, you’re very self-sacrificing, brother dear.”_

_Mycroft rolls his eyes, quite haughty for a man who’d just orgasmed. “You know very well what I mean.”_

_Sherlock smiles. “I’m sure I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”_

_“No doubt you will,” he replies sardonically. “Phone me if you receive any further messages on Moriarty’s circle.”_

_Mycroft finishes redressing himself. Back to business._

_“The polite thing to do is to return the favor, Mycroft.”_

_“Unfortunately, I must be going. Your clever mind and clever hands will no doubt do the job, so to speak.”_

_“Oh do shut up, Mycroft.”_

_“I conceed. I bid you good-night, brother.”_

Mycroft knows what Sherlock wants. The only question now is if he’s willing to give it.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft hesitates briefly outside Sherlock’s door before knocking and entering the flat. His brother is leaving the country this evening. He wants to send him off with proper a good-bye. He’s also decided to give Sherlock what he needs. Whatever he might need. It’s the right thing to do afterall.

Mycroft barely crosses the threshold when he feels a heavy weight jostle him into the flat and up against the wall beside the door. It slams shut.

“Hello to you too, Sherlock.”

Though a bit thrown off, Mycroft allows Sherlock to breathe him in and hold him close. Who knows when Sherlock will have direct human contact again? It’s not like he’s seen very many people since going into hiding. The poor thing is touch-starved. Sherlock hugs him tighter when he makes a movement in Sherlock’s grasp.

“I’m not going anywhere until you’ve left.”

Mycroft gently pats Sherlock’s back until Sherlock finally loosens his stifling hold.

“I promise.”

Sherlock is reassured. And though Mycroft has played many a trick on him, his brother has never broken his word. Sherlock believes him.

“Now, I was thinking we might order in some dinner. I don’t normally have take-away, but perhaps I could make a few phone calls to a nicer place and make special arrangements for delivery.”

“I’d rather you just take me to bed.”

Mycroft blinks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play the part of dull coquette. It’s unbecoming of both of us. We both know why you’re here.”

“I’m here to ensure that your needs are being met. Exile is trying, so I’m doing my very best to take care of you.”

“You know what I need. And you’ll either follow me or you won’t, but the choice is yours.”

Sherlock strides out of the room and down the hall to his bedroom. He thinks he’s being clever.

“Who’s playing coquette now, brother mine?” Mycroft asks the empty room.

He allows himself a minute or two to breathe before following his brother down the hall and to the left. The door is slightly ajar, so he takes it as an invitation to enter. Inside, he finds Sherlock stark naked upon the sheets, lying on his back, eyes closed, and breathing deeply. He looks serene, except for his cock, which has begun to look interested in whatever proceedings Sherlock is imagining.

“So this is what you want, is it?”

“It’s what I need.”

Sherlock’s eyes open then and wait to see what Mycroft will do. Mycroft weighs his options. Leave, and be a liar unto his brother. Stay, and commit all sorts of familial crime. No matter what either of them desire, they both know well enough that it’s _wrong_.

Mycroft shrugs out of his suit jacket and places it neatly over Sherlock’s desk chair. Gold cufflinks come off next, followed by toed off loafers and argyle socks. He even goes so far as to remove his waistcoat, leaving him in trousers and button-up alone. He looks positively naked. Sherlock is faintly surprised when Mycroft rolls up his sleeves to the elbow before sitting down on the side of the bed.

Mycroft runs a tentative hand over his brother’s bare chest, tracing up his neck and into his dark curls. They’re so feathery and light. It keeps up his youthful appearance, to be sure. It softens him. Sherlock leans into the caress. Suddenly, Sherlock looks like he wants to say something.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock begins. “I--.”

“You’ll spoil it if you speak.”

Mycroft decides that if Sherlock speaks again, he will stop this once and for all. Now is not the time for apologies and platitudes. They’ve come too far and done too much to say sorry now. If they truly regretted their actions, they wouldn’t be here at this point in time doing whatever it is that they’re doing. Mycroft doesn’t even know how to label this or even if he wants to. It’s better not to think.

Instead, he leans down and places a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock surges up to deepen it, but Mycroft backs away. He’s in charge tonight, and either Sherlock will accept that or he won’t.

“Let me,” Mycroft chides and resumes stroking over Sherlock’s lean body.

Sherlock shivers. Mycroft does have such gentle hands whereas his are rough from chemicals and equipment and cases. It’s a nice contrast. He tries to let himself float in Mycroft’s ministrations, but the nagging worry that he’s going to die on this mission lingers in the back of his mind.  
Mycroft must sense that something’s the matter because he shifts from sliding his hands over Sherlock’s chest and stomach to lower portions of his body. Mycroft moves to stand to retrieve lubricant from Sherlock’s en suite, but Sherlock grabs his hand, wordlessly giving over the bottle from under his pillow. He was prepared.

Mycroft is glad the bottle is simply medical grade lubricant and not something embarrassingly silly. Like something with flavors or odd colors that stain clothes and sheets. The solution is thin and clear. It perfectly suits the job he’s out to do, no frills attached. He rubs the gel between his hands to warm it up before shifting down to Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock shudders anyway, though from cold or sensation, Mycroft’s not quite sure.

He begins stroking him at a steady pace, caressing and squeezing at proper intervals. Sherlock bites his lip.

“Are you enjoying yourself? You don’t need to answer. Just nod or shake your head. That will suffice.”

Sherlock nods.

“Good.”

Mycroft’s hands are firm around his shaft and never falter in their rhythm. Sherlock is expert at holding himself back, to the point that Mycroft’s wrists begin to ache.

“You can let go whenever you want to, you know. Don’t feel bad. You’re supposed to.”

Sherlock shakes his head on his pillow and and digs his fingers into the sheets to hold on tight.

“You’re a little sadist, you know that, don’t you?”

Sherlock nods again. Never matter. Mycroft decides to try something he thinks Sherlock will like. He removes his hands to stretch them a bit before putting more lubricant on his fingers. Sherlock must predict his moves because he suddenly flips over onto his stomach for better access. Mycroft gently presses one finger, then two inside him before crooking them just so. Sherlock gasps beautifully. 

Now that he’s found Sherlock’s sweet spot, he’s relentless, leaving Sherlock a squirming mess on the blankets, but still he holds himself back until even Mycroft is impressed.

“I’m exhausted just looking at you.”

Sherlock locks eyes with his over his shoulder at that. Sherlock pants, cheeks red and eyes glazed over with lust. Be begs silently. He’s proud of Sherlock’s auditory control.

“I’m not going to fuck you. I hope you understand that.”

Sherlock pulls his face forward again. He knows, but it hurts all the same to hear it said aloud. Mycroft thinks quickly.

“Hand me that lubricant again. It’s a good thing we have a rather large bottle. You’re slippery as an eel right about now.”

Sherlock doesn’t look over his shoulder again, afraid of looking at his disappointed brother. Mycroft isn’t in the least. More concerned than anything else, to be perfectly honest.

Mycroft climbs all the way on the bed and moves so he is kneeling directly behind Sherlock. His cock strains interestedly at his trousers. Mycroft obliges himself and opens his trousers and pulls his pants down enough to pull out his prick. He drizzles lube onto it and pulls Sherlock’s hips back towards him. He makes the first agonizing thrust between Sherlock’s cheeks without going inside, but grazing his stretched hole all the same. Sherlock moans.

He keeps a steady rhythm again, trying to satisfy Sherlock’s urges, as well as his own. This is so close to crossing another line. They reach a point where Sherlock has to touch himself as his brother thrusts against him. Sherlock whines like he’s a hurt animal.

“You’re alright, Sherlock. Everything is going to be fine. I’m here.”

Sherlock has never heard his brother utter such tender words to him. It’s strange, but he supposes things are allowed to be strange right now. It’s sort of fitting. Sherlock reaches behind himself to grasp Mycroft’s flexing thigh. His brother is more muscular than he thought, which sends liquid heat down his spine at the thought.

“Come on, Sherlock. You’ve been holding back for an age. It’s time to let yourself go. Let yourself have it. Let it go. For yourself. For me, brother mine.”

And with a shout, he does, coming all over his hand and the bedsheets below. He makes a mess of himself, and Mycroft helps by coming all over Sherlock’s back, undignified grunts leaving his mouth as well. They collapse in a heap on the bed and don’t move for several minutes. Sherlock speaks first.

“I need my cigarettes.”

“Fetch me one as well.”

Neither of them move.

It’s a minute more before Mycroft drags himself from the bed to grab the cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lights one for the both of them. Hazy smoke surrounds their heads as they lie side by side on the bed, lost in thought.

“What time are you leaving?” Mycroft asks, taking another puff.

“Six.”

Sherlock takes a long drag.

The longer they don’t say anything, the harder it is to speak.

They end up speaking at the same time.

“I really think that--.”

“Please, you go first, brother mine,” Mycroft says.

“I really think that I’m going to miss you.”

Mycroft breathes in more of the smoke as he contemplates a satisfactory answer.

“I’m going to miss you as well.”

In the end, Mycroft keeps his promise and doesn’t leave the flat for almost an hour after Sherlock has showered and left for Russia.

**Are you up in the air? -MH**

**Yes. It’s fine for you to go home now. -SH**

**Take care of yourself. -MH**

**Only if you do the same. -SH**

It’s a promise Mycroft is willing to keep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so it's been exactly two months since I updated...so here it is! The last chapter.
> 
> Some dialogue is used from season three, episode one.

The interrogation room is cramped, and only authorized personnel are allowed it. But after two days of practicing his Serbian accent, he’s maneuvered his way inside. Currently some large brute is giving Sherlock a pounding. He wants to jump in right away at first, but then again, his little brother is often full of surprises. Mycroft rests his feet on an empty crate and waits. 

The man ceases his punches and lifts Sherlock up by his tangled hair. Whatever he whispers to the soldier is enough to send him away. Mycroft would indulge in a chuckle, but neither of them are out of the woods yet.

“You have no idea the trouble it took to find you. Now listen to me: there’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Your timing is excellent, as usual,” Sherlock huffs, half in pain, half as a laugh.

“Now let’s get you out of here.”

Mycroft signals to another soldier, who quickly undoes the chains binding Sherlock to the two walls. He must be positively aching, if those sores and scratches are anything to go by. His poor body, beaten to a pulp. He can only pray that his mind has not suffered. For as wonderful and useful as Sherlock’s mind can be for Mycroft, he knows that Sherlock treasures his wits above all else. It’s how he earns his bread and butter. It’s how he puts away the bad guys. It’s how he keeps himself active and sharp. And god, if he hasn’t _missed_ that.

Mycroft joins his brother on the medical helicopter. He’d like to hold his hand, but the doctor and nurse need to tend to him, so he would just be getting in the way. And holding hands? He really was growing soft. Sherlock had survived this torture on his own. He didn’t need Mycroft meddling. Besides, there would be time for their own private reunion later, once they were sure that Sherlock would be able to function on his own. He would have to go through tests, physical and mental to see if he was safe. The last thing he needed was a broken Sherlock who put his life in danger for real this time. He had to know that his little brother was safe.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- _Three Weeks Later_ *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The barber washes off his razor and packs up his kit, leaving the brothers alone together for the first time in over a month, and Mycroft isn’t quite sure what to say.

“Anyway, you’re safe now.”

“Yes.”

“A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Instead of all this talk, why don’t I show you how thankful I am?”

Sherlock begins moving closer to him, and Mycroft is taken back to their trysts all those months ago. It feels like all the confidence that had built up over the months Sherlock was in hiding has left. It’s not that he’s not glad Sherlock is back. Truly, he’s very happy about it. But he’s unsure of how he feels comfortable showing it. Sherlock helps him by making the first move.

As surely as Sherlock’s lips grace his, he feels himself relax. Kissing Sherlock comes with its own muscle memory, and his mouth opens gratefully. It’s dawning on him just now that Sherlock is actually home. He’s safe and in his arms. He’s here right now. A small, pleased noise escapes his mouth, but Sherlock swallows it up.

Mycroft finds his hands are beginning to wander. He’s never let himself initiate such intimacy before, but this feels like a celebration, a welcome home for Sherlock. They would never do anything grand for each other because they hate being the center of attention, if you can believe that. They like getting credit where credit is due, of course, but the homecoming that Sherlock wants—needs—can be found right here in his brother’s arms.

Sherlock begins working Mycroft’s clothes off and drops them carelessly on the floor.

“That’s quite expensive, you know.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. You know everything, don’t you?”

“Nearly,” Sherlock responds, tossing Mycroft’s tie onto his desk.

“Cheeky.”

Sherlock drops to his knees and beams up him like the perfect know-it-all that he is. Mycroft would smack him if it wasn’t so close to the truth. His little brother may be difficult, but he does love him so.

Mycroft’s pants slide down his legs, leaving him exposed to the room. Sherlock looks over his shoulder at the camera and then back up at Mycroft. Mycroft sighs.

“Do want to go somewhere else?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then everything is peachy, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nods before nuzzling Mycroft’s thigh and groin. Mycroft feels as if he was being scented. It’s never been like this between them before. He’s used to rushing and a growing sense of urgency, but they get to take their time.

Sherlock finally takes him into his mouth. It feels so wonderful that he has to lean back against the wall to keep his knees from buckling. He quickly buries his fingers into Sherlock’s curly locks. He tugs harshly when Sherlock takes him deep, and Sherlock moans in pleasure. It’s nice to hear him moan for reasons other than torture. He really didn’t get any enjoyment from seeing him beaten to a pulp. This sort of moaning is much nicer to his ears. And he gets the pleasure of being the cause of it.

“If you keep going at it like that, nothing else will happen today.”

Sherlock pulls off, a string of saliva connecting him to his cock. It’s vulgar, but he loves it.

“And what else is going to happen today?”

Mycroft thinks Sherlock knows where he’s going with this, but he likes that he’s been asked. It allows him to be a little naughty too.

“I want to fuck you.”

Sherlock perks up at that. He’s never heard something so perverse come from his brother’s lips. He stands up quickly and kisses Mycroft deeply. Mycroft tastes himself on his brother’s tongue. It’s…unpleasant, but it doesn’t make the act any less arousing.

He wants to sit in his chair and have Sherlock ride him. Because any other way this would happen here would be too strenuous or would require Sherlock to face away from him. This was a line for him before, but he can’t hold himself back anymore. He wants to be inside him.

“I hope you have lubricant somewhere in here.”

Mycroft steps out of his shoes, trousers, and pants, which have pooled around his feet. Sherlock is beginning to disrobe as well. They watch each other for a moment before reuniting with another kiss. Sherlock can’t seem to get enough of him, and Mycroft is a willing recipient.

“I can’t get the lube if you don’t stop kissing me.”

Sherlock holds out his hands as if to say, _Do what you need to do._

Mycroft finds the tiny bottle in his bottom drawer. He mostly uses it for self-pleasure—yes in the office, it’s quite a thrill—but it will do the job now. He sits down in his nice, sturdy office chair and beckons Sherlock over. He slicks himself up nice and good.

“You’re sure about this? You’re not suddenly going to change your mind?” Mycroft asks.

“I’ve wanted this a lot longer than these past two years.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Then I suppose I’ve got a lot to live up to.”

“Yes, the length and girth of your cock will be sufficient.”

“Well it will bloody well do more than ‘be sufficient’ if you actually bend over so I can prepare you for it.”

Mycroft slicks his fingers up and waits for Sherlock to settle his stomach onto the desk in front of him, presenting his ass to Mycroft.

“What did you want me to say, Mycroft? ‘Oh dear, your cock is so large. How ever will it fit inside me?’” Sherlock affects a frightened tone, mostly to piss off his brother and make him get on with it.

His fingers enter him with none of the finesse he was intending to use. Two can play at that game. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss their banter.

Mycroft’s fingers are big, and he can feel them probing inside of him. After the initial jab, Mycroft slows his fingers down, and it almost feels like an internal massage. He yelps when Mycroft hits his prostate. Sherlock’s whole body seems to clench up in surprise. He places a steadying hand on Sherlock’s lower back until he relaxes down again.

The third finger is a bit too much, and Sherlock grunts in pain. Mycroft quickly removes all three fingers.

“Sherlock, are you sure?” he asks again. 

He doesn’t want to cause him pain, especially after all he has been through. He wonders if Sherlock has ever even had a cock inside him.

“I wanted it to be you.”

Sherlock hides his face in his hands even though Mycroft can’t directly see him.

Mycroft thinks he knows what Sherlock is referring to, but he’s learned not assume things with his brother, so he bites the bullet and asks.

“You wanted what to be me?”

“I wanted you to be my first.”

This is above and beyond the most serious talk he’s ever had while also being completely naked. 

“And you thought a quickie in my office was the way to do that?”

Sherlock turns around and sits his bare bum on Mycroft’s desk. That will be fun wiping off.

“You never wanted me when I threw myself at you, sometimes even literally. I thought you’d be too excited to see me to think about how I was probably a-a virgin. I thought you wouldn’t want me. That’s why I always tried to make it good for you, so you’d want me in return. Obviously that was stupid and miscalculated, and now I look the fool in front of you. I sound desperate and sad and pathetic.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“See. You want to baby me. You’ve been going along with my advances because you felt sorry for me.”

Mycroft sighs. “I won’t lie to you. I felt pity for you and for your situation. I hated to see that brilliant mind cloistered away, rendering you captive to your emotions and physical urges. I wanted to help.”

Sherlock dropped his head in shame. Mycroft continues.

“I wanted to help because I—care for you, brother mine.”

Sherlock looks back at him with more hope in his eyes than a moment ago. It would be a shame to lose his incredibly sharp, incredibly talented brother. He’s glad he has him here, even though they rarely show this much emotion all at once.

“I care you too, Mycroft.”

There’s a small awkward silence, so they take this as an opportunity to redress. Sherlock breaks the quiet.

“I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows—jump out of a cake.”

“Baker Street? He isn’t there anymore.”

Sherlock is taken by surprise. Mycroft continues.

“Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”

Sherlock finishes buttoning his shirt in silence.

“And what about you?” Sherlock asks.

“What about me?”

“Have you ‘got on with your life’?”

“I haven’t much to ‘get on’ with unless it concerns you, or the government, of course.”

Some of the worry eases out of Sherlock’s face.

“You’ll be fine, Sherlock.”

“I suppose.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Mycroft, I’m only ever going to say this once, so please listen. I—thank you. For everything.”

Mycroft feels a swell of pride but is careful in making sure Sherlock doesn’t notice. He doesn’t want to insult him.

“That’s what I’m here for, brother mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit very much welcome. Just don't be mean, please! I really do want to improve my writing. :)


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